Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon - M. C. Beaton [6]
“That is not the reason! I just find them distasteful.”
“Divorce cases are surely the bread and butter of any detective agency. Why I’m phoning is to ask you if I can come down for the weekend.”
“Next weekend? All right. Let me know which train you’ll be on and I’ll meet you at Moreton.”
When Agatha rang off, she felt cheerful at the thought of having company. She had endured a brief unhappy marriage to James Lacey. They hadn’t even lived in the same house. But after it was over, she found herself getting lonely when she wasn’t working full out.
Then Agatha realized she hadn’t tackled Mrs. Bloxby over manipulating her into employing Phil. She rang up the vicar’s wife.
“Mrs. Bloxby,” began Agatha, “I feel you forced me into employing Phil.”
“Mr. Witherspoon. I suppose I did push you in that direction.”
“Why? You’re not a pushy woman.”
Mrs. Bloxby sighed. “I happened to learn that he has only a small pension. He made some bad investments with his capital. He is desperately in need of money and was ready to sell off some of his precious cameras. You needed a photographer, he needed work. I couldn’t help myself.”
“Oh, well,” muttered Agatha, somewhat mollified. “We’ll see how he works out.”
“Going to Ancombe?”
“Of course. I forgot to ask you what time it begins.”
“Two in the afternoon.”
“I’ll be there.”
Agatha returned to the kitchen to find her cats up on the table, tucking in to her dinner. “You little bastards,” she howled. She opened the kitchen door and shooed them both out into the garden. She scraped her dinner into the rubbish bin and suddenly burst into tears.
She finally mopped her eyes on a dishcloth and lit a cigarette with a trembling hand. Agatha was in her early fifties, but recently had been assailed with a fear of getting old and living alone. On damp days, she had a stabbing pain in her hip but stoically ignored it. She couldn’t possibly have arthritis. She was too young!
“Pull yourself together,” she said aloud. Was this the menopause at last? She had been secretly proud of the fact that she had not yet reached that borderline.
The phone rang again. Agatha wearily went to answer it.
“Charles, here.”
Agatha’s friend, Sir Charles Fraith.
“Oh, hullo, Charles. Where have you been lately?” Agatha gave a gulping sob.
“Have you been crying, Aggie?”
“Don’t call me Aggie. Bit of an allergy, that’s all.”
“Have you eaten?”
“I was about to but the cats got to it.”
“I’ll be right over. I was to entertain some luscious girl to a picnic and she never showed. I’ll bring it right over and we’ll have a picnic in your garden.”
“Oh, thanks, Charles.”
“So dry your eyes.”
“I haven’t been crying!” But Charles had rung off.
He turned up half an hour later, which had given Agatha time to bathe her face in cold water and put on fresh make-up.
She was glad to see Charles, even though she occasionally found him irritating. He had fair hair and neat features and was as self-contained and independent as a cat.
He carried a large hamper into the garden and began to set things out on the garden table.
“Duck breasts in aspic, asparagus, champagne ... you really must have thought a lot of this girl.”
“She is very ornamental,” said Charles. “Unfortunately for me, she knows it.”
They ate companionably while Agatha told him about the Smedley case.
“Might go with you,” said Charles. “Mind if I stay the night?”
“No, you know where the spare room is.”
“I’ve got my bag in the car. I’ll get it later.”
The sun slowly set behind the trees at the bottom of the garden. Agatha thought uneasily about her burst of tears. It all seemed like madness now.
TWO
CHARLES was still in bed the following morning when Agatha set out for the office fortified with a breakfast of two cigarettes and a cup of black coffee.
“What have we got today?” she asked Mrs. Freedman.
“Still got that missing-teenager case, one missing dog and one missing cat.”
“Peanuts,” said Agatha gloomily. “I’ve got the morning free, so I may as well get back out there looking for them. We’ll leave Mabel